la folie de la vie
by JeDorsToutLeTemps
Summary: When a new, slightly pathetic Rogue promises to carry out a destructive vendetta against Gotham, the Batfamily think nothing of it. Then portals start opening up all over Gotham and Blüdhaven, bringing with them alternate versions of themselves and showing them what life could have been like if even one little thing went differently.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Originally posted (by me!) on AO3 under the username dottie-wan-kenobi. There you can find the fics that helped inspire this one.**

**There's some seriously dark themes in this story, though most of them happen as past events and aren't the main focus. I'll do my best to warn before each chapter what kind of triggers are present in the chapters, and make those parts skippable or at least explain what happened at the end of the chapters.**

* * *

Gotham, June 18th, 3:07 AM

"Put the gun down," Batman demands, slow and calm, so as not to spook the man with his finger on the trigger. He doesn't have his hands out in front of him - too cool for that - but his body is tense, ready to strike. To protect his team from from this loony bin of a Rogue.

Said Rogue hasn't provided them a name or really any MO other than pissing them off, threatening kids, and attempting to make deals with the more important Rogues. He's killed two people, though many more have gone missing after meeting with this guy. Nightwing suggested Mister Missing because of it, but was shot down immediately - the stupider the name, the worse they acted. In the meantime, they've all been calling him Idiot Asshole, though not in front of Penny-One, of course. They're not interested in losing even more money than usual to the Swear and/or Work Talk Upstairs jars.

"Don't get any closer! I'll shoot!" Idiot Asshole cries out, ignoring Batman's very generous warning. The muzzle of his frankly unearthly-appearing gun points towards Robin, who growls and crouches like an angry cat.

The rooftop they're all on is probably not the best place to be for a final showdown. Not only is it above an apartment building in the part of town where they don't do evacuations unless they absolutely have to, Idiot Asshole has a gun that not even Red Robin or Oracle have been able to make heads or tails of. When Red Hood looked at it, he concluded that he also had no idea, but didn't like how big the muzzle is. "That shit," he succinctly told them, "can only fit bullets that'll go through anything. If it even shoots bullets, that is, and not like… bombs or something."

Meaning of course that the civilians under the roof were in grave danger if Idiot Asshole shot at even a slightly down angle.

"Look at me," Batman says. There's no desperation in his tone. Anyone hearing him would think he wasn't at all concerned that his team - his _children_, all of them - were in danger. Of course, one look at the tightness of his shoulders, and the care and fear were plainly obvious.

Idiot Asshole looks, though he doesn't move his aim. For someone who seems so incompetent, his hands aren't shaking. He's ready to kill them all for whatever his endgame is. Is he a soldier? Ex or current? Maybe a police officer. But those don't mesh with his personality, or his bumbling idiot image. What game is he playing here-?

"Just put your gun down and we can help you. If you don't, I'm going to have to stop you. And trust me, you do not want that."

Idiot Asshole laughs. "What I want is to be left alone! I don't need you interfering with my plans!"

"And what are your plans, exactly?"

"Nothing that concerns you. In fact, they'd do quite better if you weren't in the picture!" He swings his gun around and aims right at Batman's chest, squeezing the trigger with all his might.

Instantly, everyone else is moving, jumping off their perches and running or swinging to their patriarch and the Rogue.

The gun jams. Nothing comes out. Batman is surrounded by (most of) the rest of Gotham's heroes, standing tall, unharmed. Idiot Asshole is faced with all of them - the scary ones, Red Hood, Black Bat, and Robin; the intense ones, Batgirl, Red Robin, Batman; and the nice ones, Lark and Nightwing - humiliated with a failed plan.

"Well, that was embarrassing," he mumbles, stepping back, closer to the edge. As they watch him, he visibly regroup, partially exposed face lighting up. "No matter, though! There are other ways of distracting you."

"Shut the hell up, man," Nightwing complains.

"I'm going to shake up your whole world!" Then Idiot Asshole cackles, and jumps off the roof.

When they rush to the side seconds later, looking down and expecting a mangled body or even a getaway vehicle, they find nothing. At all.

Red Robin goes down to investigate, but finds no trace evidence, no bits or bobs or anything.

"Is that… normal?" Asks Lark, the newest member.

"Eh, sometimes." Red Hood shrugs. Considering the other Rogues in this insane city, nothing can be conclusively labelled impossible. Also, considering disappearing like that is a staple Bat move? It's more common than Lark probably thinks.

"It doesn't make sense - where could he have gone?" Red Robin almost reaches up to run a hand through his hair, before remembering that his gloves pull painfully the strands. The stress relief isn't worth the pain.

"Should we split up, look for him?"

"I mean, it's pretty obvious he's gone. There aren't even any bootprints. I doubt we'd find anything."

Batman cuts in then, all business. "Nightwing, Red Hood, you two are free to continue patrol or retire for the night, whatever you see fit. Batgirl, your curfew is coming up very soon, so go get changed and head home. As for the rest of you, one more circuit, and then that's it for the night. We'll continue looking for the Rogue in the afternoon, and you will all be updated, so keep your comm lines open."

"Say Idiot Asshole. Please, just once, B."

"No."

"C'mon, _please_?"

"No."

"Just once!"

"I would like to hear you saw it as well, Father."

"_Please_."

"...Idiot Asshole."

Their collective laugh and cheer are very unlike the Bats of Gotham, but whatever. No one is around to hear them. Or see, in the case of Batman, the small and very uncharacteristic smirk.

With that settled, they all move on.

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**Comments always appreciated! Thank you for reading!**


	2. June 18th part 1: Talon

**AN: TRIGGER WARNINGS: homelessness & what comes along with it, being a Talon and some of what comes along with it, strong language, some (not-graphic) violence, a mugging, non-graphic vomiting, two instances of bones snapping, and a very small mention of human trafficking.**

**(Jesus Christ that sounds so bad but it's really not)**

**And remember... some of these characters are unreliable narrators...**

* * *

Blüdhaven-1, June 18th, 3:51 PM

Wind suddenly whips down the alleyway, ruffling the garbage bags, loose papers, and powdery snow. Talon shivers as it tickles over his scalp, soft and quiet and _cold_.

Curse it being _June_ of all months.

He tucks his blanket tighter around his body, clenching his teeth so they don't clatter together. If they do, his position will be revealed. It's not dark enough for Batman or his birds to be out, but the criminals and homeless here are vicious. His belongings - a thick blanket, thick dark clothes, bland but functional shoes, and his precious knives - are all things the people on these streets would love to take from him.

A voice that sounds much too similar to Cobb's for Talon whispers, _Kill them. Show them who owns the streets. You are Talon! The loyal servant to the respectable Court of Owls! What are they but street trash?_

There are many problems with that, which Talon is allowed to acknowledge, now that there is no Court anymore. One is just that - no Court, no Talon. No sentencing to death. Another is that no one owns the streets of Blüdhaven, not really. Flamebird sometimes comes this far out, but only when the mobs and such of Gotham cross over. Talon lives on the streets just as much as any other here, and those who steal often have a reason, like needing to feed their families or keeping themselves alive.

There's no sense in killing them. And anyway, Talon only kills when the Court tells him to. The Court is gone. Talon won't kill again. It's as simple as that.

It's very difficult not to, though. So many others on the streets, who have no reason for their violence and cruelty, kill and maim and rape every day. Talon stops them. And sometimes, he imagines snapping their necks, or stabbing them with his knives until they're gone, or toying with them, chasing them and pouncing….

Talon presses his lips together. He won't kill again. He _won't_. If he did, the attention of the sister cities would shine on him, and there would be nowhere to hide.

It's bad enough that Batman is on his tail. As far as the Court was concerned, he has no qualms about killing and will surely kill Talon for his actions if he were caught. Robin, though young, would most likely join in. Flamebird is the only one who definitely won't kill Talon, but the thought of being taken to the League of Justice is frightening.

Not that Talon is scared. He hasn't been scared in a very long time.

However, it's not like Flamebird was labelled by the Court to be extremely dangerous for no reason. Robin is the one known for killing Talons, though word is they were mercy killings. Talon believes it - the Court didn't like Talons who were bested in combat by _humans_. Death is much more preferable to the punishments they doled out.

Death is much more preferable than being hunted down by Batman and his cronies.

He blinks, and memories of the frightening man fly to the surface of his mind.

_"I swear I saw him around here somewhere." With the cowl down, he seemed more human. Less Owl. From his hiding place, Talon watched with fascination. This was the man they'd been told to kill on sight? To scatter the remains of?_

_Robin shifted on his feet, looking around the tattered remains of the medical room. When his eyes landed on the coffins, his face squished. "Father, there were many Talons. Are you sure of what you saw? Some got away. This one most likely has as well."_

_"Positive, Robin. It was a young Talon, and they ran this way." The intensity in his voice came across as anger. Talon was very familiar with anger, and being on the receiving end of it. He stilled his whole body - if Batman saw him, there was no doubt he'd strike. He was hunting him, and somehow knew almost exactly where he'd gone._

_"There's no way to exit from here, anyway, brat," Flamebird said, a weird lilt in his voice. He was smiling._

_"Tt! You've seen how resourceful these things are - "_

_"They're people, Robin."_

_"They_ were. _Not anymore."_

_Batman shook his head, something menacing writ on his face. "Just keep looking."_

_"We've searched every room, Father, I sincerely doubt - "_

_"There!" Flamebird suddenly shouted, and it_ hurt, T_alon's ears ringing and thudding painfully. He dropped from his hiding place, rattled from the events of the day, and hit the ground hard._

_The three men stared at him. Talon shrunk back. Batman took a step forward, hand reached out, and Talon wasted no time in lunging. With ease, he took Batman down to the ground, and ran. Robin's glove almost grabbed hold of his arm, but Talon was faster. Fast enough to get away._

_Running down familiar halls, he headed towards the labyrinth, confident in his ability to navigate it. The Bats would be lost somewhere in it while he got away. It didn't hurt to see the emptiness of the area, the absence of Owls and Talons and doctors. He didn't know where they went or what had happened to them. He didn't care._

_The door to the labyrinth was flung open, the heaviness of it barely registering. Breath whistled from somewhere as he took in the room. There was nothing but rubble. The fountain bubbled slowly in the middle, but the water was red._

_"Hey! Calm down! We're here to help!"_

_Flamebird. No. No, no, no._

_Batman and his birds didn't help. They killed and hurt and would_ freeze _Talon and_ experiment _on him. He could not be caught. No._

_Talon jumped into the mess, ankles snapping painfully, and wasted no time in running away, towards the fountain. He had to get out. He had to get away._

_When he looked back, all three of them were gaining on him._

Fuck, _he thought, pathetic tears welling in his eyes._

Talon blinks hard against the familiar feeling, wishing to hell he'd died alongside the other Talons. He's not allowed to want things, but he does want that. He lifts a hand to scrub at his face, pressing hard against his wet eyes. He is _Talon_ \- there _must_ be more control than this. He is not human and he is not a child. He does not want, he does not cry.

When he hides his hand back in the blanket, the wind picks up again, and suddenly a horrifically bright light blinds him. Tears fall with earnest now, but not because he's emoting. The light hurts, it stings and it aches and why, why, _why_-

"Talon," a voice whispers. "Look up."

He can't say no. He looks up.

His eyes stop hurting, mouth dropping open in shock.

A large circle of what he can only describe as rippling energy hovers in the air in front of him. It's blue, and in the center, reaching the edges, is a mirror image of the alleyway. Except there's no snow, and it's brighter, like there aren't as many clouds. Talon can't help but look under it, finding that the other side looks normal when not looking through the circle.

"It's a portal," the same voice whispers, seemingly coming from the… portal. "And if you go through it, Batman will stop hunting you. He won't ever hunt you again."

A shout from the mouth of the alleyway has Talon swerving to see, and sure enough, there's an audience. Homeless people, pointing at the portal, at _him_. _No_, he thinks faintly. An audience means Batman will come.

"Just step through it, Talon."

Shakily, he stands. His knives are a familiar weight against his chest, and his blanket stays wrapped tightly around him. One step, two, and then he's there. The energy is palpable, and something bitterly cold slithers down Talon's spine.

This is… this is not something the Court prepared him for. He knows nothing about portals. Has no idea what will greet him on the other side. If it's even real. Not to mention, he doesn't even know who is telling him to go-

"Do it, Talon!"

He steps through.

* * *

Blüdhaven, June 18th, 4:30 PM

For a second, there's no air in Talon's lungs. He drops to the ground, the heels of his palms scraping painfully against hard ground. When he swivels around, the portal is gone. There's nothing left of where he just was, just a perfect mirror image of the alleyway.

There's no snow. It's not cold. In fact, the air is humid and warm and he can smell the docks, hear birds squawking. The sky is brighter, enough to vaguely sting, no clouds covering up the sun.

People walk past the alleyway, not paying him any mind at all. They don't look as dirty as they normally do.

Talon isn't scared. He's _not_.

His body isn't made for it anymore, but he gags, and barely manages to get his blanket out of the way before he's vomiting. It goes on for long, painful minutes, and he's sweating and shivering by the time he's done. The last time he sweated, he was running away from Flamebird. The last time he vomited… it must've been when he was human. He can't remember.

He scrambles away from the mess, grabs his blanket, and risks sitting closer to the mouth of the alley.

Why did he come here? _Why_?

Fleeing Batman cannot possibly be worth _this_.

He sits for a long time. He doesn't bother counting, doesn't bother being aware (as much as he is able, at least), doesn't bother about anything. It's only when the sweat stops that he moves again, stumbling to his feet in the way Talons never should. The way he, specifically, never should.

It must be the warm air, he concludes, but that doesn't sound quite right.

Either way, he can't stay here. This alleyway is compromised by whoever made the portal, and anyway, it stinks a lot more without the snow muting everything.

When he makes it out onto the street, it becomes immediately clear that he cannot survive in this much light. Talons aren't supposed to be in the light - they're nocturnal, they see better in the dark, they blend into the shadows so much easier. He's been sleeping in bursts during the day, but it's just not a viable option, when there's danger around every corner.

Maybe if he can find a well defended but uninhabited fire escape, he can rest. Pull the blanket over his head and just _stop_ for a while. (But not like the coffin. Never like the coffin again.)

Sticking close to the walls of the buildings, Talon ducks his head and looks for any spot he can go to. Everything here is different, however small, and it's making him feel ill again. Not that Talons feel illness. But this body is old, much older than it appears, and without the injections the Cobb used to give him, it could be reverting.

During the long, long minutes it takes to find somewhere to sit for a moment (another, thankfully less stinky, alley), he thinks of nothing else. What happens when a Talon reverts? Is he becoming human again? Will he die, or will he stay like this forever? What-

Alarm suddenly rings through him, and without a second thought, he slams against the wall, pulling the blanket over himself and sitting with his knees pressed against his chest. Within seconds, three men step in, large and hairy and muscular in the way some Talons were. The Owls always wanted leaner ones, though. Some of Talon's victims were shaped like this.

"The boss wants the whole thing done by the 24th at the latest," says the tallest of the three.

The one wringing his hands looks down for a moment. "During the day or at night?"

"Night, dumbass. Less witnesses."

His answer makes the last one shake his head and pound a fist into his open palm. "Why the fuck we always gotta do shit at night, though? Everyone knows that's when Nightwing'll come out and rain hell on ya."

"Fuck Nightwing!"

"You won't be sayin' that shit when you're as black and blue as his goddamn suit! You two chucklefucks haven't been in the game as long as me. I know how Nightwing acts. He's gonna know exactly what we got bein' shipped in, and he won't just stand by and let us have it. No, he's gonna flip and fly and shit and before you even know it, you'll be on your way to the hospital spitting up your own teeth."

"Big Dog, if you don't wanna face one little Bat all by his lonesome, then why the fuck'd you even join in on this gig?"

Big Dog's face hardens. "I need the fuckin' money, dipshit."

Dipshit laughs. "We all do, you ain't special. Now man the fuck up or I'll tell the boss you're going soft 'cause some twink - "

"He's right," says the nervous one, quiet like a mouse. "Nightwing don't fuck around with guns comin' in his city. He'll catch us, and even if he don't, he'll hunt us down. My sister got put up 'cause of him. She was just the getaway driver, you know."

"Your sister got put up 'cause she was trafficking, you fucking moron." Dipshit growls and shakes his head. "We been here too long, anyway. Soon enough, one 'a those cops'll come 'round and wanna talk 'n shit."

With the threat of talking hanging over their heads, the three men vacate quickly.

Talon emerges slowly and only after they're long gone, something that is not fear coiling in his chest. Nightwing? He's never heard of Nightwing. The files never mentioned him, _Cobb_ never mentioned him. And god dammit, did they say he would hunt them down?

Batman will stop hunting you, the portal had said. Clearly, he's just traded one for another.

Will he have to leave Blüdhaven? It's a tactically sound place to stay away from Batman while still being close to the home of the Court. But if there's a Bat here too, or at least a flying, brutal demon like Nightwing seems to be, then he needs to leave. He needs to leave _now_.

He doesn't even know when now is.

The blanket is soundly pulled back over his head. By the time he comes out, the sky is getting darker. He stares at the much more visible stars, making a plan. He needs one as soon as possible, but it probably won't work tonight, no matter what it is. All he needs to do for now is avoid Nightwing. Considering how long he's been hiding from Batman, it should be fine.

For now, something he can do is check the newspapers.

The nearest stand is closing up for the night, and the man behind the counter doesn't notice anything at all when Talon takes the nearest paper. He goes down a few blocks and steps off to the side, opening it up casually.

He used to know how to read. When he was a human, he didn't like it so much, but he _could_. Then he wasn't human anymore and he didn't have to know, because anything he needed to know could be told to him orally. Now, looking at the paper, the words swim and mix together and make no sense.

The numbers almost make sense - one-eight. That's eighteen. Hmm. That must be part of the date… then that must be…. As he sees what year it is, his fingers clench instinctively, crumpling the paper some. It's not right. It can't be right.

How long was he in the coffin? How can this be possible?

Wanting to stop looking at those horrible numbers, he flips the page and comes face to face, immediately, with Batman.

The noise he makes is _not_ a gasp. No. Talons do not gasp. But he does take a few moments to breathe and analyze the picture. It's black and white, so he's not very visible, though Talon can easily pick out the musculature and hidden weapons. Batman wasn't so big, when he last saw him. Has it been enough time for him to change this much, or… or what?

Carefully, he folds it back up, and tucks it under his arm like he's seen other people do. Then he turns and blends into the rushing crowd, just another homeless person heading towards the shelters.

When he finds a dry and hidden alley, he stops in, arranging bits of cardboard around and preparing himself to sleep. This is good enough. It has to be.

And for a few hours, it is. He sleeps with his eyes open, no dreams haunting him. The blanket added with the lingering humidity are perfectly warm. No one else comes in and tries to steal from him.

He's awoken by whimpers, muffled screaming, and a gruff voice that instantly sets his teeth on edge. Silently, he sits up, watching for a moment. There's a man with a gun, holding tightly to a woman's wrist and purse handle. She's pushed up against the wall, tears falling.

"Give me your fucking money, now," the man demands again.

"I - I -"

"Now!"

Talon stands, making enough noise that they both turn to him, flinching.

Immediately, the man says, "I don't want any trouble, hobo."

"Right," Talon says, sounding… weirdly human. He doesn't like it. "You just want the money."

"Yeah." He smirks and turns back to the woman, who's staring at Talon like he's just ensured her death.

"Can't you see she can't give you the money if you're holding her like that?"

"What? The hell are you talkin' about?"

Talon gestures at the purse handle, twisted and held tight to the woman's wrist by the man's disgusting hand. Something about the sight is making heat rise in his cheeks. He wants to pounce on the man and watch as he slowly dies from asphyx-

The man lets go, but pushes the gun forward, so it's pressed to the woman's forehead. "Get your money out, bitch."

Shakily, she reaches into her purse, and though Talon can clearly see the way she's about to pull out a pistol, he still lunges. Hits the man straight in his center of gravity, sending them careening to the ground, spilling out of the alley.

He punches, punches, punches, and bones snap with satisfy ease. The woman runs away, screaming. Talon thinks nothing of it, just of the way it feels so good to hurt this disgusting man.

_Don't kill him. Don't kill him, Talon._

_Kill him! He deserves it!_

_Don't-!_

"Woah, woah, stop! You're gonna kill him, kid!"

Talon looks away from the bloody mess under him, and finds himself staring Nightwing in the face. Taller than Talon, about as muscular, horror and anger and apprehension on his face. Weirdly familiar.

Staring right at Talon, and the barely breathing man he's just beaten half to death.

_Goddammit._


	3. June 18th part 2: Jason-2

TRIGGER WARNINGS: mildly suicidal thoughts & mental instability, blood, the Joker being his evil self in flashbacks, some self-esteem issues related to being replaced, non-graphic depictions of dead bodies, final goodbyes, grief, having to tell someone that someone has died, and crying. There is a lot of crying in this chapter. I cried, my beta cried, and you probably will too.

* * *

Arkham Asylum-2, June 18th, 4:58 PM

If Jason's being honest, he doesn't really care that someone had finally found him. That _Bruce_ had finally found him. He certainly doesn't care about whoever it is banging at the door, begging him to let them in. They've been at it since… well, he's not really sure when. It's not like there're windows here, and he hasn't had a regular sleep schedule in so long, he can't rely on that to tell.

The only thing he can rely on is the room around him, sealed like a tomb, never to be opened or shut again. It's not comforting, but it's steady, and he can appreciate that.

(Though, if he's being really, _really_ honest… he would've liked to see the sky one more time. The stars. Anything other the stupidly tall walls of this stupidly cruel room.)

Every once in a while, the people on the other side of the door call out, "Robin," like they know he's here. (And goddammit, if they knew, _then where were they_?) He has no idea if they're more of Joker's men, Arkham guards or inmates, or even GCPD. Whoever it is, he knows they won't like what they find. "Let us in. We can help you. You just gotta open the door."

Said door is made of weighted steel, locked from the inside and outside with special keys Jason's barely caught glimpses of in the past. It's also all the way across the room, and even if he could stand right now, much less walk, he couldn't open it. _Wouldn't_ open it. If only because he'd have to cross the room.

Those keys, they're on the floor not too far away. They'd fallen out of Joker's pocket and been left there, and he can't look away from the way blood is pooling around them. His ticket to freedom, his ticket straight to Belle freakin' Reve or his own grave.

"_Robin_," they try again. Their voices strain with desperation, but it's easy to ignore.

Jason sighs, head rolling back to lean against the graffiti-covered wall. There are thousands of "HA HA HA"s spray-painted all around him, in disgustingly bright colors, dripping down and reaching towards him. Over his head, "JOKES ON YOU, BATMAN!" is written, garish yellow with an accompanying little bird next to it. There are several "cat got your tongue, Robin?"s and a single "REPLACED!" with a hellish smile by the door.

He can barely find it in himself to look at it anymore. When he was first taken, every day, every _minute_, he'd watch it, expecting Bruce to come flying through and rescue him.

_"What are you going to do, little bird? When Daddy Bats gets you out of here?"_ Joker had whispered. It's been months, probably, but the words still echo around the room. _"Kill the newest chick? Or maybe just yourself…."_

And then he'd laughed and laughed, and the memory mixes with a newer one, where he slammed Bruce's face to the floor with so much force, the concrete cracked.

"Fuck off!" Jason chokes out, as loud as he can. His voice is dry and brittle, and his head swims with the effort, and then his stomach clenches as he thinks about how damn _weak_ he is.

"You need help, son!" Someone on the other side of the door shouts back, thinking that was for them. Jason doesn't _care_ about them, don't they know that? Don't they know what that door is hiding?

"Robin," and is that Commissioner Gordon? It can't be… his voice is too thick and unsteady. The Commish has never cried in all the years Jason's known him. But it sounds just like him otherwise. "Robin, please, we need you to open the door. We have this side unlocked, now you gotta open your side, and we can get you out of there."

_Shut up_, he thinks, anger suddenly flaring hot under his skin. Get him out of here? Yeah, fat load of good that'll do. _Shut the hell up._

"Nightwing and Batgirl are here, son. They want to help. All you have to do is open the door."

Dick and Babs came? Maybe he should… but if he did open the door, they'd _see_, they'd _know_, and he doesn't want anyone else to witness this. Doesn't want to share this crippling pain. "No!"

"_Please_, Robin, can you just open the door? It's okay. Whatever happened in there, it's okay…."

He doesn't bother replying. It's not okay and it never will be.

Soon enough, they give up. Their voices continue, but quieter, not for him. _About_ him, though, that's for sure. It almost makes him want to laugh. They only pretend to care now that Joker and Batman are—are—

And anyway, there's a new Robin. He might have scraps of his old suit somewhere around here, bloody and sweaty and dusty, but he's clearly not Robin anymore.

One of the few things from the real world that Joker ever brought in was a newspaper showcasing a picture of the new Robin, and the vile monster had been so delighted to rub it in Jason's face that he'd been replaced.

_"Did he ever even love you, lambchop?"_

The picture is still pinned up on the wall by the makeshift bed he'd been allowed to have, laminated and superglued so that he could never tear it down. Joker had written in the margins all the ways this one is better than Jason ever was. Smarter, more disciplined, younger, quicker, more flexible, not as violent….

_Joker giggled, unable to help himself from bouncing gleefully. His spindly fingers tapped against each other in front of his chest, a tell of pure amusement Jason learned a long time ago. "What does that make you, then? A_ Jaybird_? Or maybe just a pigeon—useless and annoying."_

Unbidden, his eyes slide to limp body next to him, a crowbar sticking out of it's stomach. The sight of it is disgusting and gut twisting, but none of that registers to him. This is just a body, and he's seen too many of those in his life. This one is not human and never was.

Even in death, there's a smile, teeth stained red.

_"I… never thought ... you'd have it in ya, kid…."_

Jason's lip trembles, throat tightening painfully. God, what would Bruce think of him? A killer, nothing but relief flowing through him as he sees what he's done. He can't even dredge up an ounce of regret.

Worse, he doesn't _want_ to.

This creature has tormented him for years. _Years_! He beat and maimed and hurt Jason, and then he… he took away one of the few people in his life that had ever cared about him. If any death has ever been deserved, it's the Joker's.

He doesn't look at his father, laying dead a bit farther into the room. He can't, or he'll break down completely.

When his eyes squeeze shut, burning, he tells himself it'll all be over soon enough.

"Robin," a new voice says. At first he thinks it's from the door. Commish Gordon trying to pull the Nightwing and Batgirl card again, or maybe more pleading for him to cross the room on useless legs, step over his father's body, grab bloody keys and open the heavy door that's kept him locked up for so long. _Well fuck that_, he thinks, gearing up to yell at them again. But then the voice comes, and it's way too close to be from the door.

He jumps, fear suddenly pounding in his ears, because dammit, is it the Joker, is he back, did his death not fucking take —

"Robin. Open your eyes."

A shiver goes down his spine as he thinks, _okay, that voice is too low to be the Joker's, so it can't be him_. Either way, he doesn't want to do what it says. Reality is too awful, he doesn't want to see it again, so whoever the hell is telling him to—

"I can make all of this better."

"Bullshit," he chokes out. "You can't fix this."

"I can," the voice counters. To other people, it might be comfortingly deep, but all it does is remind him of the gravel in Batman's words, the soothing, fatherly love that infused Bruce's. This one sounds like a kid using a voice changer—fake and annoying. But the words themselves…, "If you would just open your eyes."

After a moment, in which he thinks about his extremely limited options and how much he does not want to look, he cracks one eye. Then both go wide as saucers as he takes in the—the _thing_ in front of him, shimmery red energy in a perfect circle hovering in the air. The center of it shows a dimly lit road, surrounded on both sides by endless trees and foliage.

Sci-fi's never been his bag, especially when he had Jane Austen on hand, but he still knows it when he sees it.

"Are you—what the—_is that a portal_?"

"Finally, someone gets it," the voice drawls, and it's coming from the portal thing, like it's no big deal at all. "Yes, it's a portal, and if you step through it, things'll be fixed. I can fix everything."

"I can't walk," he blurts out, before frowning and adding, "And I'm pretty sure you're not real, anyway."

"W-what? Of course I'm—_it's_ real."

"There's Joker gas in those crates over there. B…." Jason clears his throat against the rising grief, and it aches immediately, but he can't find it within himself to care. "B could've hit one of 'em with a batarang or something. He probably did, and I'm just imagining you now. A talking portal telling me it can fix things? Yeah right. Get the hell outta here."

"You know, you were supposed to be the easy one?"

"The hell are you—"

"Why would you want to stay here?" The voice asks, talking right over Jason. "Nightwing and Batgirl won't do shit for you, and you know it. And anyway, this place is a hellhole. I can take all of it away and give you want you want!"

"You don't know anything about me, or what I want!" He slams his fist down against the floor, voice cracking on the last word. It rips out of him, setting his chest and throat alight with pain once again, but goddamn, who is this hallucinated portal to tell him _anything_?!

"You _want_ to get the hell out of here, and you _want_ Batman back." It sounds so smug he just wants to punch the portal in the face. "If you go through the portal, both of those wishes will be granted. So do it!"

Jason curls his fists. He'd done it right before he screamed and jumped at the Joker and shoved the crowbar through him, and the memory of it shocks him enough that he doesn't argue back with the portal voice.

"The big bad Red Hood should be strong enough to stand up and take a few steps to freedom and happiness. Jesus, I don't know why I even try…."

The light of the portal starts to fade as soon as the voice rails off, and Jason shouts, "Wait!"

He has to take the opportunity, doesn't he? He _has_ to. Even if this isn't real. Even if he's going to wake up in a hospital bed, or right back where he's been every morning recently. Maybe he just won't wake up. All of it only adds up to one choice—he has to go through the portal.

"Robin?" A voice from the door replies, and dammit, that sounds so much like Babs, it _hurts_. Memories of her swirl around all the other thoughts. Tutoring sessions, complaining about Bruce and Dick, watching X Files together. He's missed her, more than he ever thought he would, and now… now he's going to leave before he can even see her again. "Wait for what? Are you coming to the door?"

He waits until the portal is back to normal before saying back, "You'll have to blow her down! But just wait a few minutes, okay?"

"Okay, we can do that. We'll wait," Nightwing answers, though he can still hear Babs speaking quietly from somewhere beyond the door. "Is Batman in there?"

Oh god. There's no telling how batshit Dick'll go when he sees Bruce. "Y-yeah. It's not good, man."

There's nothing for a long moment. Then—"Just as long as you're okay."

And damn, does that bring out the waterworks. He wants to laugh, never wants to laugh again, wishes he could protect his stupid brother from the horrors of this room. "I—"

"Little Wing… _Are_ you okay?"

_Am I okay? Am I_ okay_? No. How could I be okay, Dickhead? How could you ask me that? And more importantly,_ where were you?! _Why do you only care now?_

But those thoughts are wrong, he knows they are. Joker used to laugh and laugh about how the first little robin wasn't much of a detective, if he was looking so hard even the papers caught wind of it but still couldn't find him. He _did_ care. Jason has to believe that.

"I'm fine," he replies, voice cracking again. No matter what's happened, he forgives, _loves_ his brother, which only makes this so much worse. "Hey, Big Bird?"

Dick laughs at the stupid nickname, and it's a broken sound that pierces straight to his heart. "Yeah?"

"Don't—don't come in here. It's really bad, okay? Let the others come in first."

"Why—?"

"Hurry up," the portal says forcefully, a reminder of how little time he has left.

Eyes burning, he tells Dick, "I love you." He's never said it before to anyone but his mom (Catherine, not Sheila). He wishes he'd said it to so many people, now, but it's too late for them. He can say it to Dick, at least.

"Ja—_Robin_, you're scaring me. It's going to be okay, you're gonna be okay, just hold on! Damn it, open the door, he's—"

"Robin!" Babs again. "What's going on? Are you injured?"

He looks down to the dried blood, wounds that've healed incorrectly, his bloody knuckles and twisted fingers, the cuts and bruises that don't even hurt anymore, if he's being honest. "It doesn't matter," he says, knowing how much it absolutely does matter to them. "Look, Batgirl, I love you too, okay?"

"_Robin_—"

"Robin," the portal warns again. Like it knows he's said his piece and needs to go before he decides to stay.

"Fine, shut up." With a growl, he tries to stand. Leans all the way on the wall, panting and groaning with the effort and pain. A good ole burst of adrenaline would come in handy right now. But after that last one, he's honestly not sure he'll ever feel it again. The numbing it lended him, though… he could really use some of that.

When he's upright, legs shaking like a newborn baby's, tears are leaving streaks down his face and his teeth are clenched so hard, something cracks. Fuck, why did he stand up? This is a pipe dream, fueled by Joker gas, it's stupid and _he's_ stupid and—

"I can't," he whispers, shame rising in him. "I can't, I can't."

"Do you want to go there? To that forest?" It's like a switch has flipped, all the annoying, rushing, fakeness of the portal voice is gone. Now it's a smooth talking businessman, ready to sell to Jason a strip of road and some grass and trees. And damn him if he's not _falling_ for it.

But he just can't help it. He wants out, more than anything else right now. In the distance, he hears Babs' voice again. God, he doesn't want to leave them, but he doesn't want to stay, but he doesn't want it to _be_ like this anymore.

"Yes," he sobs. His own weakness has him banging his head against the wall.

"Then come _on_," the voice huffs, and then everything goes black.

* * *

Bristol Township, June 18th, 6:45 PM

For a second, Jason just lays there, perfectly imitating sleep. He does it often, but the Joker's never really caught on, that or he doesn't care. It's a moment of peace before the cycle of torment starts all over again.

Something feels different about this time, though, and for a long moment, he can't put his finger on it.

He risks breathing a little deeper, and okay, yeah, the air is different. Less steel and concrete and no circulation. It's fresher, more humid… what the hell?

When he opens his eyes, all he sees around him is the darkening sky expanding in every direction, stars becoming more and more visible as night falls. Tall trees shoot up from the ground, covering up parts of the sky with their branches and leaves. Under them, well-groomed grass swishes softly with the light breeze.

All he's wanted to do since he first went to Ethiopia and was kidnapped has been to see the expansive and unhindered sky above the Manor again. Or the Manor itself. Or just the sky, it doesn't have to be over the Manor as long as he could see the stars one more time before he croaked.

With a groan, he tries to take stock of himself. Everything's a little numb and a lot cold, but he can move his limbs well enough. His ankles and knees protest immediately, but it's survivable. His fingers ache, his wrists twinge, and his elbows and shoulders crack like nobody's business. He can't deny that it could be worse, even if the thought of doing anything but lying here makes him want to become one with the grass.

Except, he's not on grass, is he? The ground is way too hard and not pokey enough for it be grass. His shaky fingers scrape around beside him, and it becomes immediately apparent by the texture and heat that he's laying in the middle of the road.

"What the—?"

Very gingerly, he sits up, cursing at every flare of pain. It takes so much longer than it should, especially for someone Jason's age, even if he has been beaten more times than he can remember ever since… well, basically since birth. Oof, bad thought, bad thought. Think of something else, Jason, like….

….Like Bruce dying? The insane portal that had swallowed him whole and spit him out in the middle of the road?

Unless he like blacked out or something, and escaped. But is that even possible? Jason curls his toes, testing, and winces as the sharp stab. Okay, so probably not. That's good, right?

He still doesn't know where he is. Though something about the trees looks weirdly familiar. He hasn't been around too many of them—Gotham is a big city with room for sad, spindly trees; he didn't see much of Ethiopia except the warehouse; and again, there were no windows in that room in Arkham. The only trees he knows are the ones around the Manor, but why would the portal spit him out there?

Bruce is dead. Alfred, Dick, Babs, they're nice enough but they wouldn't want to let the idiot who let Bruce Wayne die in their home.

Stupid, childish tears immediately well in his eyes at the thought, and it's as he's raising his hand to wipe them away that he sees lights. Headlights. Coming right for him.

Pure fear slams through him, and he shouts expletives, rolling into the grass just as the very large SUV comes barreling over the small hill. The driver blares their horn as they scream past, and even though he'd love to scream back, there's not enough air in his lungs.

_Jesus_, he thinks with no small amount of despair (he almost died), anxiety (he _almost died_), and anger (_HE ALMOST DIED — JESUS, LEARN TO DRIVE YOU MANIAC!_).

He lays there for way too long. It's not safe, and clouds are rolling in, looking like it might rain, which would really be the icing on this shitty cake. Also the grass is cold and wet and is poking him in weird places. But it's so much easier to just lay there and breathe and try not to cry.

When he eventually does get up, he moans with every movement. Apparently almost dying, _again_, does nothing but make his body ache even worse than it already did. Also, standing without a wall to lean on is a lesson in gravity and almost-broken noses that he really does not appreciate having to learn.

Somehow, he makes it to his feet, which he's realizing only now are bare. He lost his Robin boots in Ethiopia and hasn't seen them since. There's never been enough time to miss them, not really, but he does now. It would make this so much easier.

His training falls second to what he learned on the streets in most cases, but here they match well enough. He needs to find shelter, something for the night at least, and food if he's lucky. Shelter first, though.

He takes a step. The grass tickles but the pain that floods through him distracts him from the sensation he was sure, just a few hours before, that he'd never feel again. All he wants to do in that moment is fall to the ground and give up. _I can't do this…_ , he thinks once again, and the words burn like acid.

He's not actually pathetic enough to give up now, is he?

No. He's Jason goddamn Todd and he doesn't give up, especially not like this.

_You have to get through this, Jason_, he tells himself firmly. _You can cry and feel sorry for yourself once you're not out in the open. Pull up your bootstraps or whatever the hell that saying is and DO IT._

He takes another step. Then another, and another, and another, until he's actually doing it. Walking on legs that've broken in too many places to count now. Taking control of himself, taking _care_ of himself, and saying one big _fuck you_ to the Joker in the meantime.

The thought's almost enough to make him smile. His mouth probably doesn't work like that anymore, or maybe his brain, but even the suggestion of happiness sends something all through his body. Something like magic.

Probably because he actually feels like he's Robin again, and Robin has always given him magic, made things better. Even when it didn't.

Walking becomes less of a chore the more he thinks about it, though some part of him recognizes that he's probably irreparably damaging _something_. It doesn't matter, _can't_ matter, though. He has to keep going. Happy thoughts aside, he has a mission and he needs to focus on it.

But damn, if the memories of being Robin don't make something in his chest loosen, make it easier to breathe. He hasn't allowed himself to think about it in so long, since all it did was make his heart constrict and his eyes burn. Now he's free, and he can think about swinging around Gotham with his dad all he wants.

...his dead dad.

Yeah, his dead dad, who he swung around the city with before inevitably ending up in front of a Rogue, like the Joker, who fucking _killed his dad—!_

Jason looks up suddenly, fury racing through his veins, and finds himself about to run into a gate. What the hell? "Where'd you come from?" He whispers to it, trying to ignore everything else. It looks familiar, like everything else out here does, but he actually has a memory associated with this thing.

_"Master Jason, do refrain from straying too far today. The snow is dreadful, and I will not have you getting sick. Again."_

_"Yes, Alfie," Jason, twelve years old and coming off the flu, said. He obediently went and played outside where Alfred could see him, and then bolted the second the older man stepped away from the window._

_Stay close? Pfft. He went all the way to the large fence separating the Wayne Manor lands from the Drake's. By the time he got there, he could barely breathe, more because the air was so thin and bitingly cold than because of his lungs. He was Robin, after all - his lungs were fine. The thrill of being alone again for the first time in what felt like too long was enough that he didn't care._

_He loved being with Bruce Wayne and his family, he did. But sometimes he just wanted to spend some time alone, you know? Apparently being sick meant he had the attention and care of all three adults in his new family._

_It was nice, being coddled. Weird, but nice._

_Either way, he pulled his book out from under his jacket, and sat heavily against the gate. It was made of fancy wood, painted white, with gaps between the boards big enough to see through. Didn't seem like much in the way of protection, but he knew that it was erected like this—with the outside parts of the fence being thicker and taller—because a Wayne in the past was having an affair with a Drake and wanted easier access. The old broken board had long since been fixed, but it was still fun to come here and—_

_"Whatcha doin'?"_

This is the gate that separated the two Manors.

For what feels like several long, long minutes, it doesn't set in. It just doesn't make sense, that he's here, that this is the gate he used to meet Tim Drake at and talk about the Justice League with.

He never expected to see it again.

His hands run reverently over the surface of it, just taking in the familiar sensation. Something about it is soothing, reminding him of better times. More importantly, it reminds him that home is nearby. Just on the other side of the fence.

For the first time in however long, he can go home.

It takes no further thought to start booking it even more. He gets around the fence and into the Manor's yard somehow, feeling like he's on autopilot, thoughts racing so fast that his chest starts heaving along with it.

The yard is too big for any sane person to have, especially when said person only has like two and a half kids and absolutely refuses to get them pets of any sort. All the space was a novelty when he first moved in, but now it's just hindering him from getting home. He doesn't know what he'll find, if he'll even be welcome, how much time has passed, anything. But it doesn't matter because his only goal was to find shelter, and this is shelter. This is _home_.

When he sees it fully, larger-than-life and looming just like it's owner, his chest breaks open into a million pieces. Jesus, he's missed this place so much, and it's so close but so far, and…. Dammit Bruce, why did your stupid ancestors put the house a million miles away from the gate?

He limps the whole way to the door. It gets worse with each step, like something's dragging him down. He starts to feel lightheaded about halfway there, black spots dancing in his vision. But he's going to make it there if it kills him. He won't let _anything_ stop him.

Taking the stairs shoots pain up his legs and back, his grip on the railing being white-knuckled. Then he's staring up at the door, with a peep hole and fancy woodwork. Nothing less than the best for the Waynes.

Out of habit, he pats his pockets, as if he'd find his keys there. Nevermind the fact that he'd left them home when he left for Ethiopia. He doesn't bother reaching for the set of lockpicking tools he used to have.

Instead, he just knocks. If no one comes to the door, then he'll find a way in. If someone comes and they don't want him, he'll try the 'defenseless child out in the cold' card. Even though he's not a kid anymore, and it's not really cold.

While he waits for the final verdict, he leans up against the door jamb, another wave of lightheadedness washing over him. It's getting really old if you ask him.

When the door finally does open, it takes Jason way too long to dredge up the energy to open his eyes. And then he tries to blink away the tears the sight brings, because this is Alfred and he's missed the old man so much, his throat is already tightening up.

"Alfie…," he says, and his voice drifts off horribly.

"Master Jason," Alfred says, hands hovering over him uncertainly. "What on earth has happened to you, my dear boy?"

"Alfie." He can't help but repeat it. It's always made the older man smile, to be called that. This time he doesn't though, and Jason tries again, some part of his brain not communicating with the more pressing matters at hand. "I missed you so much."

"Master Jason…."

"Has Dick told you?"

His pseudo-grandpa gives him a look full of confusion, fear, and what can only be love. Voice very gentle, he asks Jason, "Told me what?"

Oh god. Oh god, he doesn't want to be the one to tell Alfred. Please no. He can't be the one to tell him that his son is fucking dead.

His head gets pressed to Alfred's chest, right over his thudding heart. "Please, Master Jason, you need to breathe, join me, won't you?"

He sounds so far away. A million miles, at least. Maybe underwater. It sure sounds like he could be.

"Bruce is dead," Jason whispers miserably. He can't look at Alfred while he says it, but the older man _has to know_. Saying it outloud hurts so damn much. Makes it too real. With a sob, he falls into Alfred's arms fully, trusting him with all of his weight. "Oh god. My dad is dead."

Alfred's hand comes up to rest on the back of his head, his mouth to Jason's ear to whisper something he doesn't hear. Jason only processes that he hears other voices too before he finally passes out.


End file.
